


Stuck on You

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One misstep and every event in life looks very different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck on You

Stuck on You  
by Dawnwind

Starsky took a cautious breath, staring up into the intensely blue eyes of his partner. Hutch was panting, his mouth partially opened, sweat beaded on his brow. Hutch swallowed quick and hard, his Adam's apple moving up and down the long column of his throat. Starsky felt suspended in time--weirdly floaty. It was one of those transcendental moments when everything that had come before was unalterably changed forever.

"Oh, God, Hutch..."

"Starsk?" Hutch whispered, reaching out to him.

"Pull it out, Hu-tch." The last was said on an outward gasp, taking almost all of his usable air with it. His lungs locked up, making it that much harder to breathe.

"Can't, babe." Hutch bit his lip, something stark and indefinable twisting across his face.

"That you talking?" Starsky tried for a chuckle, anything to wipe away Hutch's expression. "Or some damned manual?"

"Neither, and both." Hutch favored him with a tight smile and scrambled out of his jacket, ripping one of the buttons on the cuff in his haste. "Can't take it out right now, Starsk."

Filled with an urgent need to move, to arch back or even just shift his hips, Starsky reached up, trying to get at the monster that impaled him. His right hand made one clumsy attempt before Hutch caught his fingers in a gentle grasp.

"No, you have to wait." He tucked his jacket around Starsky's shoulders, very tenderly brushing his knuckles along Starsky's jaw line in the process. A barely there caress, superb in its brevity, immense in its ability to soothe.

"What about...?" It was so hard to think, as if all the blood had fled from his brain for lower parts of his body. They'd come to this place, this construction site, for a reason, but for the life of him, Starsky couldn't remember it now. Images crowded in: of Hutch's hand on his belly, then running and ducking bullets, stumbling, trying to keep his balance on an unsteady pile of cast-off lumber. A shout and a scream, possibly overlapping each other.

"Starsk?" There was such fear in Hutch's voice. "Stay with me, don't let go."

"Don't think I can," Starsky said dryly, but it took such terrible effort to talk. "You've got me for the duration." He shuddered, which jarred the rod pinning him to the dirt. "Oh, fuck!" The pain was taking hold, strangling his belly with a horrible intensity. "Take it out!"

"Starsky," Hutch said with infinite patience, and his voice trembled as if he couldn't manage to hold the same register for any length of time. "You'll bleed to death. The paramedics are on their way."

"Sanchez?" Starsky pursued the fleeting thought instead of letting the pain tear him to shreds. "You got him?"

"He could qualify for the Olympics next year." Hutch squeezed Starsky's hand. "Jerry Sikes--one of the uniforms that showed up for back-up--saw him take the fence like a champion hurdler, down there where the property edges the wharf."

"I shoulda..." Starsky started, but he had to bite his lip to keep from begging for relief again. There had to be something better than lying on the chilly ground, pinned like the pithed frogs in his high school biology class. "Shoulda caught him but he was throwing stuff--"

With the uneven ground strewn with discarded equipment, and the contrast between the bright noon sun and the murky shadows cast by the unfinished office tower, Starsky'd been hard-pressed to keep up with the fleet footed suspect. He'd stumbled on a length of wood and windmilled wildly to keep his footing just as something long and hard shoved him backwards. Starsky had caught a glimpse of Sanchez laughing manically as he raced away toward the distant fence line. The memory made Starsky push his feet into the ground as if he could launch himself up and away in a single bound.

"Starsky, would you just stay still?" Hutch pressed down on his shoulder just a fraction too hard, increasing the pain level beyond endurance. Starsky whimpered, even though he really, really didn't want to.

"I'm sorry!" Hutch reared back, contrition written large like a scarlet C on his forehead.

"Come back," Starsky moaned, wiggling his fingers to maintain the contact. "Stay with me."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Never." Starsky closed his eyes as Hutch's palm settled against his once more. That kept him grounded far better than the damned piece of steel that pinned him to the dirt. He kept slipping into a detached, filtered world where nothing much mattered. He wanted to avoid getting lost there at all costs. Surely those damned paramedics should have been here by now to cut him free. If Hutch was going to be a weenie about pulling the rod out of his belly, then he'd just have to rely on the kindness of strangers. That struck him as inordinately funny, and he half-chuckled before remembering what a really bad idea that was.

Pain unraveled his resolve, exploding through his chest with enough force to steal the breath from his lungs.

"Starsk!" Hutch roared far too close to his ear.

"All right! I'm all right!" Starsky insisted irritably when he could actually speak without losing bits of himself to the monster. He looked up, straight into Hutch's eyes, and found who he was again. This was taking too damned long. "Where..."

"Where the hell are those paramedics?" Hutch yelled.

Apparently Hutch had the exact same thought. This both comforted and slightly alarmed Starsky, which was useful in its own way because the disturbing idea managed to distract him from the pain for about a tenth of a second.

That was all the time he needed; sirens screamed around the corner, the sound bouncing like a live thing off the cement walls looming over Starsky and Hutch.

"Tell 'em to pull it out quick, like a band-aid," Starsky said, hearing his own voice recede as if he was going down a long tunnel away from the scene. "'S taking too long. I'm cold."

"Damn," Hutch said so softly Starsky barely heard him. "You're going into shock."

"Am not," Starsky argued, to stay focused. "It's f-fucking December, wha'd you expect?"

The siren sliced through Starsky's head, red lancing pain racing from ear to ear and then suddenly, there was silence. He exhaled with a grunt and gripped Hutch's hand as hard as he could, suddenly afraid. This could end badly.

"Paramedics are here. I'm gonna get you a blanket."

Hutch eased his hand out of Starsky's grasp and dashed off. Alone, Starsky shivered which jostled the damned rod and caused awful sensations through his belly and chest. Every instinct in him told him to get up, yank the metal out of his body and get away.

_Get away from the pain and the smell of fear, the heavy scent of blood._

All he wanted was to find Hutch and grab on.

Indistinct thoughts danced through his addled brain, memories of them coupling on the bed, Starsky flat on the mattress in this exact position, Hutch's cock up his ass, threaded through his body as if he were a bead on a string, slack and dislocated.

He was cold and lifeless, on a bed, unable to move and Hutch loomed above him, far away and crying.

No, it was a doctor and he was performing CPR. Starsky floated up above his own body, wondering where the hell he was...

And then knew that that was a memory. Not here and now. As broken and disjointed as he was, he wasn't dead. That was in the past.

He could head people talking, voices coming near him. There was cold dirt under his back where his shirt had ridden up and a rock dug into his hipbone. That was real.

He ghosted his right hand upward, trying to grasp the lance that held him fast, but he had no strength to pull Excalibur out of the stone. Wasn't that a Disney movie? He could see a valiant knight in full shiny armor pierced by his opponent's sword, the hilt pinning him to the earth.

Wasn't Hutch the white knight? Did that make Starsky the black knight?

Starsky caught his breath, trembling with cold, and then Hutch was suddenly there again, bundling a thick blanket around his shoulders, surrounding him with warmth. It should have helped but Starsky was so icy he couldn't feel his hands or feet anymore.

Parts of him were breaking off, floating away on the wind.

"How'd this happen?" a man asked with the voice of a radio announcer.

 _Didn't he know?_ Starsky thought irritably. Paramedics should know.

Hutch was talking, relating the accident. Starsky tried to listen but the blanket had stuffed into his ears, muffling all sound. Something sharp jabbed into his arm and he cried out, grateful that his left arm was still there, still attached to his body.

"Wha's?" he asked, confused. "Tell 'em to take it out, Hutch. Had 'nough."

"I know, babe," Hutch rumbled directly into his ear. "Not too much longer."

"I'm giving you some morphine to dull the pain," the radio announcer said. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Starsky," he answered, absurdly proud of his ability to do so. The blessed morphine was working its magic. He was floating on an ice flow in the artic ocean. It was frigidly cold but surprisingly peaceful.

"Great, Starsky. I'm Dave."

"'S'my name."

"So your partner told me." He chuckled. "My partner, Kevin, who is great with his hands, is going to cut through the rebar, but we're going to need you to raise up as high as you're able so that he can get below you."

_Was he nuts?_

"Just pull it out," Starsky said as reasonably as possible. The agony in his belly was still there but with the narcotics on board, he could ignore it for seconds at a time, pretend that he wasn't pinned like some science experiment, ready to be dissected.

"Starsk, I got you." Hutch put one hand under Starsky's left shoulder. "Just going to take it slow, ease you up into my lap."

"F-fuck..." He was clay, molded into pain, wrenched from the dirt. Each inch was hell, ragged talons scrabbling over his flesh, ripping him apart from both inside and out. "D-don't...Hutch!" Starsky wasn't sure that he'd spoken or just screamed the words inside his head. Sharp, fresh, hot agony pressed in on him and he heard the whine of an electric saw.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You're the luckiest bastard in the entire state," Hutch said. "Maybe the whole U.S."

"Continental or countin' Alaska and Hawaii, too?" Starsky asked lazily with his eyes closed, reveling in the total absence pain.

"You just have to be contrary?" Hutch sighed, wiping a weary hand across his forehead.

Starsky turned his head to peer at Hutch, ignoring the object he was holding. "It's a gift. You didn't answer the question."

"Luckiest man in all fifty states and including Puerto Rico."

Starsky was still having difficulty seeing straight. A couple of doses of morphine plus enough lorazepam to fell a horse, according to the nurse, would do that. However, he could see that Hutch had a patch of dirt on his cheek and his clothes were filthy, covered in dirt and streaks of blood. The latter turned Starsky's stomach. He swallowed against the bitter tang in the back of his throat until the urge to hurl passed.

"Need a drink of water?" Hutch asked dryly.

Intelligent man, he'd wisely decided against asking if Starsky was okay.

"Nope." He swallowed again, waiting for things to settle just a little more securely. Anything coming near his throat or stomach was likely to upset the balance right now. "What time is it?"

"Not sure, there's no clock in here."

Starsky chuckled hoarsely. "They never want you to know how long you've languished in the ER."

"We're on the third floor, buddy, and you've been admitted." There was something odd about the way Hutch spoke, like he was choking just a little.

"When did that happen?" Starsky closed his eyes again.

Hutch cleared his throat. "A couple of hours ago. After about half a dozen x-rays, when they determined that the rebar didn't puncture anything really important and that surgery wasn't warranted."

"I remember all that," Starsky said, very grumpy.

"Then that doctor who looked about fifteen years old gave you an epidural--"

"That I distinctly remember," Starsky agreed. The position required to get the IV into his spine had been hellish because of the piece of metal still sticking obscenely from his belly.

"Again, I agree with the aforementioned doctor who pulled this hunk of metal out. You're the luckiest son of a bitch in the state."

"You said bastard the last time." Starsky held up a finger, quite proud of his memory on this point.

"I was quoting the teenager masquerading as a doctor."

"He got the job done," Starsky said quietly, looking down at his flat belly. A light blanket covered him from the waist and he was wearing a hospital Johnny, a worthless garment, in his estimation, which only served to embarrass patients enough so that they didn't go trotting down the hall with their tushes sticking out. He suspected there was a bandage below the blankets and gown, although he couldn't really feel his lower half, which was very much a good thing until the epidural wore off. He really wasn't looking forward to that.

He looked over at Hutch again, registering the familiarity of a standard hospital room this time, and the object that Hutch was turning over and over in his hands. A length of rebar, roughly eight or so inches long.

Starsky gulped, his throat spasming, and focused on Hutch's pale face.

"Hutch, you okay?" he asked after a long time. Hutch never raised his eyes from his intense examination of the rebar.

"What am I supposed to say here?" He hitched a breath and sat back. There was the track of a single tear through the dirt on his cheek. "Not an hour after we were in bed, you're flat on your back, bleeding out, a damned piece of metal stuck through your belly."

"It was just some dumb ol' hunk of junk that didn't have the decency to stay on the ground where it belonged," Starsky whispered, pierced through the heart once again for the love of this man. "Nothing in the scheme of things." He put his hand out, relieved when Hutch dropped the rebar. It landed with a harsh clang, and Hutch closed his fingers around Starsky's, holding him tightly. "Big enough for two in this bed."

Images of them lying together that morning, Hutch impaling him with his long, thick length assailed him. Damned rebar was only an inch or so in diameter. He'd had much, much thicker things shoved into his body, and enjoyed himself a hell of a lot more.

Hutch swallowed, his Adam's apple moving up and down very slowly and he finally looked directly at Starsky. His blue eyes were suspiciously watery, but then, Starsky's vision was still kind of spacey. "Hey, look what happened the last time I crawled into a hospital bed with you."

"I was kinda hoping that would happen again." Starsky tried on his biggest smile, but either it didn't have the usual effect or Hutch was still fixated on the worst case scenario.

"Without the stuffed veal, natch."

"Wouldn't be the same," Hutch said softly. The corners of his mouth moved upwards, mirroring Starsky's smile. "I was drunk on half a bottle of vino and love 'cause you survived."

"And now?" Starsky bounced their joined hands.

"You survived again, damn you." Hutch moved fast, kissing him hard on the lips with a wild desperation. He pressed their foreheads together, holding Starsky at the base of his skull, both thumbs rubbing circles into Starsky's scalp. "Damn you, Starsk. Seeing you like that--God."

Starsky closed his eyes, the flutter of Hutch's eyelashes on his skin like a thank you. The warmth of Hutch's forehead against his kept him sane. He felt like he had an invisible keyhole somewhere inside him that only unlocked to the key made from Hutch's soul.

"Move over." Hutch took a deep breath that Starsky could feel to the bottom of his own lungs.

The epidural was starting to wear off. Weird twinges of isolated pain sparked from different points on his lower belly while other places were blessedly numb. Starsky scooted along the mattress, pretending that he didn't feel a sharp ache directly over the right side of his pelvis. All the drugs he'd had left him with a disjointed, floaty sensation as if his head and body weren't attached.

Hutch climbed up on the bed, arranging his long legs down Starsky's left side, a human sized heating pad with arms that wrapped around him tightly.

"Feels good. Too bad we can't do what we usually do in bed." He leaned against Hutch, storing up all the goodness. How had he ever recovered from the injuries he'd sustained before he and Hutch came together as a couple? Sure, Hutch had always been there--pouring out brotherly love, which had been terrific, but nothing compared to having his lover, as well as his soul mate, at his back.

"Anybody ever tell you that you have a dirty mind?"

"You want a specific number?" Starsky giggled. For some reason, that struck him as particularly funny.

"You talk big, but can you produce the...."

"Shuddup." Starsky smiled wearily when Hutch kissed him on the cheek. "So, this baby doctor said I was the luckiest bastard on the planet? How many stitches do I get to add to my life's total?"

"Don't ask." Hutch hitched a breath, as if dispelling the morbid thoughts. Starsky felt the rise and fall of Hutch's ribcage against his own backbone. "The rebar missed all major arteries, and it only took the doc two tugs to pull it out."

Starsky wasn't looking at Hutch but he could feel his partner's fear leaching away with every second that they embraced. He closed his eyes, projecting back to the morning when they'd cuddled in the aftermath of sex, content. "Wish this was our day off."

"It was."

"Who answered the phone?" Starsky retorted. "Who agreed to come in? Volunteered us! Wasn't me."

"Hey!" Hutch rapped his knuckled very gently on Starsky's bicep. "Marty's wife just had twins! He was needed in the delivery room. It was the least we could do for the guy."

Starsky turned his head, blinking when the room seemed to glide eerily back and forth. No more morphine for him. He took a deep breath to steady the tilt-a-whirl, which only half worked. "What is we hadn't gone in?" Things would have been so different. "Would we be doing this?"

"Yeah." Hutch bent to kiss him. This time, Starsky's mouth was where his cheek had been, so he got to taste his lover, feel the dry, sweet brush of his lips.

"Thank you."

"You certainly made this a memorable Christmas," Hutch said, finishing the kiss with obvious regret. "But let's not make this a tradition, huh?"

"No more ER visits next December?" Starsky chuckled, pressing a hand over his rib cage. Damn, he shouldn't laugh on the same day he'd had stitches. "I had something all planned as an encore."

"I'd prefer quiet evenings around the menorah or a little evergreen, and dinner together." Hutch glanced at the door as if expecting a nurse to come break up their little tryst momentarily.

"Don't tell me you're suddenly nostalgic for euphoric sentimentalism."

"Perish the thought, cretin."

"You say the sweetest things, asshole," Starsky said just as his stomach decided to join the party in a flooding rush.

Hutch was no fool; he grabbed a kidney shaped basin and shoved it under Starsky's chin. They'd missed breakfast due to the early morning canoodling and hadn't eaten anything since, so there was nothing much to throw up, but Starsky was drained and hurting by the time he wiped his mouth.

"So much for Christmas, huh?" Starsky said weakly. "No gingerbread cookies and eggnog for me this year."

Hutch drew Starsky against his body, one arm around his shoulders. "Euphoric sentimentalism is just a state of mind, like anything else. The thing that always got me in the spirit, Starsk, was you. Because no matter what shit we waded through, you still saw a jolly old saint Nick in those boozers ringing their bell for the Salvation Army on the corner." Hutch shifted carefully so that Starsky was basically sitting in his lap. "And a celebration in two turkey sandwiches and a mug of mulled cider sitting in the Tomato on a stakeout."

"Ho, ho, ho..." Starsky held onto his belly, which had never once shook like a bowl full of jelly, but continued to threaten him with nausea. He leaned his head on Hutch's shoulder, lulled by the soft rumble of his partner's voice.

"I have always maintained a strict no Christmas carols policy," Hutch said loftily.

"No Blue Christmas?"

"Go to Vegas for any and all Elvis covers. However, this song has been on the tip of my tongue since this morning." Hutch began to hum, a low, mellow sound that gained volume as if he was searching for the words and only discovered them mid stanza. "...I've got this feeling down deep in my soul that I just can't lose. Guess I'm on my way. Needed a friend. And the way I feel now I guess I'll be with you 'til the end..."

"Mighty glad you stayed...Stuck on you," Starsky finished.

The End


End file.
